


Thora Drabbles

by theharellan



Series: Become the Storm (Thora Cadash) [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Platonic Female/Male Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28091094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/pseuds/theharellan
Summary: A series of drabbles/short fics featuring Thora Cadash, mostly fills from ask memes on Tumblr and pieces of writing that I don't feel need a separate entry.Includes details from her life prior to becoming Herald, her relationships with companions and OCs, and more!
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainer/Female Cadash, Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Cadash (Dragon Age), Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Female Cadash & Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: Become the Storm (Thora Cadash) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982695
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Wabi-Sabi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wabi-Sabi (Japanese): Finding beauty in imperfections.

Cups clink musically against the heavy wood of Thora’s desk as she lines them in a row. They sit at different sizes, some squashed and others tall, with flared lips and curved bottoms. Cadri hunches lower in her seat to line her eyes with the surface of the desk to better see them. “I thought you said this was a set.”

“Something like that,” Thora hums a noncommittal response as she sets another down, this one white with bottle blue accents and a handle that curls like a contented cat’s tail. The merchant had seemed nonplussed by her affection for them, unsure what to make by the Herald ignoring the shop’s finer goods, sculpted to within an inch of perfection. These had been shoved under a table, somewhere most eyes would overlook, too tall to see beneath the shadows cast by the candlelight, but not her.

“I think you got hustled, salroka. Besides, you can drink tea outta anything.”

She scoffs. “What, like a flagon?”

A grin steals across Cadri’s face. “You said it, not me,” she says as she plucks one cup that lies in two pieces. “You can’t even drink out of half of these.”

“Not yet, you can’t.” She gestures for the pieces, which tumble into her waiting palm. “I’m going to get Harritt to do me a favour.” Thora holds the pieces up to her face, cracked edges framing one brown eye. “You can seal up the edges with gold, it adds character, tells a story. Like… gilded history.” She falters a little as she’s explaining, wondering if the idea had less merit once it was said aloud.

Cadri doesn’t say anything for a moment, pinching a chipped piece between her fingers and rolling it thoughtfully together. “Huh,” she hums. “Guess the idea has some potential. You read about it somewhere?”

Heat warms Thora’s cheeks. She sets the fractured cup down, eyes skirting around meeting Cadri’s. “I, uh, may have read about it once,” she admits, then adds in a smaller, bashful voice, “in a poem.”

“Figures.” The smile that turns her cousin’s lips is fond, causing Thora to wonder if she needed to answer at all. “Once a nerd, always a nerd.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cadri Cadash is the creation of TheBraveHobbit and not my OC!


	2. To The Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Solas sits with his companions, he finds himself wanting to share more than is wise, seeking fellowship in a strange world.

Outside the sky darkens with warnings of an oncoming storm. Wind tears at the newly risen Inquisition flag over Caer Bronach, harrying black clouds that gather upon the horizon. Yet conversation brightens the evening, a round of laughter breaks out, and the fire seems to burn brighter in its wake. “I can’t say I don’t know what it’s like,” Blackwall snorts, “to be young and, well, desperate. Abandoned taverns aren’t the worst place I’ve heard of.”

“That place smelled like a decade’s worth of rot,” Thora says, “and a splinter just waiting to happen. No man’s worth that kind of trouble.”

“I’m afraid I must agree with our Inquisitor, Blackwall.” Though nothing about Solas’ tone suggests it, the laugh lines around his eyes only deepen as he regards Blackwall from across the fire.

Froth from his beer clings to his beard, another quirk to his companion that he cannot bring himself to understand, though he doubts he will find an ally in Thora in that matter. The back of a hairy hand wipes it away, perhaps sensing the eyes upon it. “Right, fine, I know when I’m beat.”

“Past experience would suggest otherwise. I seem to recall a game of Diamondback–”

“Alright, alright.” He waves his hand in the air with more gusto than was required. “I think I need a refill. Thora?”

“I’m good.”

“Right. _You_ ,” Blackwall points an accusing finger in his direction, “have to go yourself.”

His vexation only serves to amuse, Solas struggles to contain his grin to a satisfied smirk. Beside him, Thora giggles without restraint. “You gave him his stuff back, didn’t you?” she asks from behind her hand.

“What he would miss, certainly. I’d little use for a pair of old boots.”

“I didn’t take you for much of a gambler.”

“I would not consider myself one, anymore. Games of chance are a reliable way to lose dignity as well as coin, as our Warden demonstrated handily. Some skill is involved, yes, but had the cards fallen differently–”

“Yeah, I get it. I’ve seen enough people lose their shirts after a bad game of Wicked Grace, or worse. There’s a lotta fools out there who thought they could gamble their way out of debt.” Her smile has a rueful edge to it, now. The light behind dark brown eyes darkens with the sky. “First time I taught Tetrak how to play Diamondback, I won his favourite toy off him, the only nice one he had. Kept it for a month before I gave it back, just long enough he thought he’d lost it forever. Thought it was the best way to keep him from betting more than he could afford to lose.”

“Tetrak?”

“My brother. Tried to teach him everything I knew. He, uh, left to join the Qun a few years back. Barely heard from him since.” Her voice drops an octave, face turning away from the fire, though not even shadow masks her expression from him. It was unlike their Inquisitor to withdraw, her lips a solemn line that betray her regret, despite her efforts. “I could teach him how to play cards, how to hide a dagger in your sleeve, y’know? Couldn’t answer those big questions.”

“Few of us truly can,” he answers, words scarcely louder than the roar of their campfire. From across the courtyard he catches sight of Blackwall returning, drink in hand, and he measures his next words carefully. Between the three of them, they doubtless had enough sad tales to drown them before their liquor had the chance. Airing Thora’s now seems unwise. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor.”

“I’m far from the only person who lost family to the Qun in Kirkwall, least I know Tetrak made it out.”

“Here.” Blackwall leans over, offering forward a fresh mug to Thora. The look on his face, broad brow knitted together, suggests that for Solas’s caution he may have overheard. “Thought I’d get you one anyway.”

She cracks a grin, forgetting her words a mere moment ago. “Thanks. Do, um–” The question is punctuated by a short sip of her drink. “Do either of you have siblings?”

From across the fire, his eyes meet with Blackwall’s, as though hoping the other will go first. Drink or shame has ruddied the Warden’s cheeks, and Solas thinks to buy him time. His answer is simple, and yet he hesitates. “I have no blood siblings.” Though he has always wondered if someone came after him, if his story had become a warning to young children before the ages reduced his home to ruin. A cautionary tale of what uncurbed curiosity could do to a young mind.

It doesn’t matter, he supposes. That tale died, alongside a thousand other stories. Lost to stone and dirt.

“There were some who I came to know as such.” His words are even, his unease masked by the Veil, each sentence carefully considered before he speaks it. “They are lost, now.” To themselves, or to the world, or to him. Vain gods, comrades-in-arms, a whole host of people who had fought at his side for a better world. Once, it might have been their faces he gazed across the fire at, grins breaking across bare faces as they learned to needle holes in his pride, as one might a brother.

He remembers the look on the face of Adahleni, new to his name, the first time Solas passed him food from his plate. The stunned shock, how his ears lifted and shrank back, the air twisting as he tried to make sense of it. How in the space of a second Solas had gone from god, to something more. A wash of magic, the image of his hand clasping another’s as equals, then a smile broke across his face– not unlike the one that Blackwall inspired but a moment ago.

His stomach turns to remember it, to look upon the world and see what has changed, and what hasn’t. The fire burns, thunder rumbles in the distance, the world is flat and overwhelmingly whole at once. Solas sets his drink aside, the agitation that grips him seems poised to burn a hole through his stomach without its aid. The memory goes unspoken. Even if he could tell it without drawing suspicion, to tell their story without naming their cause, their sacrifice– they deserved better.

So he holds his tongue.

“I’m sorry.” It’s Thora’s turn to speak those words, as though it were her that tore the world in two.

“We’ve all seen battle,” Blackwall cuts in, locking eyes with Solas, returning the favour from a breath ago, before the past had seemed so close at hand. The contents of his mug spill over the lip as he raises it in a toast. “To the lost,” he says.

“To the lost,” Thora echoes.

“To the lost.” They down their drinks in sync, but his remains forgotten by his feet, while the edges of his world close in around him.


	3. Darktown Dealings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mage Underground finds an unlikely ally in the Carta. Set during the events of _Dragon Age II_

You meet all sorts, down in the sewers. Rats, mostly, and not all of them crawled on four legs.

Alexia goes rigid when she hears armour echoing through the tunnels, one arm sweeping out to stop her charges where they stand. She’s imagining Templars rounding the corner, swords drawn, ready to take back who they think are theirs.

But it isn’t Templars. There’s a foot or two of dead air where she expects to see her foes, and instead of armour shining with a sigil of a sword against the sun, the intruders are in bent, metal things that have seen better days. Carta. The dwarves stop when they see her there, the one leading the party looks past her, towards the two young mages who haven’t breathed since before they appeared.

“Do mages come with bounties?” she hears one ask.

She summons fire into the palm of her hand, having no weapon other than that which the Maker cursed her with. “Try it, dwarf,” she warns, angry enough to spit venom. “We’ll see how hot that armour can get.” Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembers reading dwarves resisted magic, same as Templars, but all flesh burns eventually.

“There’s no need,” the first says, hands leaving the pommel of the warhammer that’s leaned across her back. “We’re not gonna fight you.” Her head turns, branded cheek towards Alexia, so she can fix her companion with an angry look. “Tetrak here has a shit sense of humour.” A heavy sigh moves her breastplate, and the fire in Alexia’s hand burns dimmer. Their eyes meet, and the dwarf smiles easily. “Which way are you going? Maybe we’re heading the same direction.”


	4. First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thora invites Blackwall to her quarters, never expecting him to actually show up. Short NSFW ficlet exploring a Blackwall/Herald relationship that is consummated before Skyhold.

The first time she'd heard her name all day was in his gasping voice.

She’d had her doubts that Blackwall would dare take up her offer, but then again in the days since the Breach she’d wondered to herself if any man would dare touch her again. People saw the Herald before they ever saw the woman who played her, and from there it became all-too-easy to forget she was a person with needs.

She rode him until the lamplighter doused the last streetlamp outside, sucking in soft sounds of pleasure so no one would hear through the walls. His hands grasped her thighs, grip easing with every thrust until he came undone completely.

“You’ll sleep well tonight,” she joked as rolled off him, tucking herself beneath the crook of his arm.

“Not yet I won’t.” When Blackwall laughed it sounded like how fireplaces felt on a cold winter’s day. He ran his thumb lazily across her breast, his intentions laid bare in the slow path he traced towards the meeting of her thighs. She stayed his hand and held it, and when their eyes met she saw the question reflected in his.

“It’s getting late,” she said, “maybe you can... owe me one?”

“I like the sound of that.” His grin was broad beneath his beard, but she saw the weariness in his expression. Tomorrow would bring new battles and new enemies, but if her days ended like today she could bare it a little longer. “Until tomorrow, my lady,” he murmured, lips soft against her knuckles.

All the things they’d done to each other that evening, and it was those words which made her cheeks hot.


	5. Campfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thora had a life before she was Herald. As the Inquisition's growing party gathers around a campfire in the foothills of Ferelden, she sees fit to tell them a tale from her travels as a smuggler.

“I’ve got a story.”  


The campfire flares as though in response, casting the small circle of companions in orange light as the Herald leans forward, bracing herself on her knees. Her eyes sweep across the faces of the people she’d come to know so well so quickly, a self-satisfied grin steals across her expression as she notes how they all turn to listen. Those who’d busied themselves with their hands paused their work, looking across the fire to where Thora sits. It’s a new feeling for the dwarf, who had learned long ago that the closer you are to the ground the less likely they are to listen. She lets the prelude hang pregnant in the air, cutting through the atmosphere mired in tales. Some real, some legends, all with a touch of fantasy that made one question which were which.  
  
When the time’s right, she sits up a little straighter, feigning hesitancy. “Though I’m not sure any of you’d believe me if I told it.”  
  
“Stop playin’ and tell us already,” Sera moans. “Before Varric tells another.”  
  
The man in question laughs. “Come to think of it, there was that Pride demon in Darktown.” With a dramatic groan, Sera throws boot over his head, only encouraging his laughter. When at last contains himself, he throws an apologetic look Thora’s way, grin still creasing the corners of his eyes. “We’re all ears, Sunflower.”

She’s biting back a grin, herself, struggling to contain herself for the sake of the mood. “Alright,” she begins, collecting herself. “This was in Ferelden, Amaranthine, in the days not long after the Blight. Ferelden was a strange place to be in those days, the memories from the Blight still hung heavy over its people, but there was hope, too. All the more since the Hero of Ferelden had chosen to make the arling her home.” She’d worried for a time if operating so close to a new Warden stronghold was wise, but as it turned out Wardens needed lyrium, too, and even after they’d saved the world official channels were still _reluctant_ to relinquish any power. That’s where the Carta steps in. Same was true of the Conclave. A finger in every pie, that was the Carta motto, sometimes two if things seemed especially promising. “Good thing she did, too, or I’m not sure I’d have made it out of Amaranthine alive.”

Thora rocks back in her seat, eyes sweeping across the faces of her companions, wondering to herself if this is how the Hero felt during those days in Ferelden. Retiring to a well-lit campfire, surrounded by the strangest collection of people Thedas had to offer.

“It was in the weeks after the Darkspawn sieged Amaranthine that it happened. Cool Harvestmere evening, not so different from this one, when a stranger approached our camp. He had a hood on, threadbare, pulled all the way over his face so all we could see was the shadow cast by the fire. He asked for a bit of shelter from the road, and I couldn’t see a reason to refuse him.”

A disbelieving snort shoots from Varric’s nose. “Let me get this straight,” he says. “A mysterious stranger oozes from the shadows asking for a place at your fire and you just… let him?”

“My mama taught me the meaning of the word ‘hospitality,’ Master Tethras.”

Varric breathes a sigh, though he can’t fight his amusement anymore now than he could before. “I suppose it explains the company you keep.”

“Mhm, now, _as I was saying_.” She doesn’t continue right away, trying to seize her train of thought where it had left her behind. “He asked for shelter, and we let him. We’d… lost someone escaping Amaranthine, and had a bedroll to spare. It only seemed right. He was polite, a little odd, we taught him how to play Diamondback with only a half-deck of cards, never saw a man so happy to win a couple coppers, but times were hard enough I couldn’t say I was surprised.” Thora recalls how he fumbled them between his fingers like he was unaccustomed to the sensation of his fingers in thick leather gloves, after he put them away he kept patting his pocket just to make sure he could still feel the impression of them in his coat. “He thanked us before bed, and by morning he was gone. Not too out of the ordinary, most people have business on the roads. Only I noticed the grass where he’d pitched his tent had wilted overnight, like winter came early. In the weeks that followed we heard rumours, talk of Darkspawn who spoke King’s Tongue, and a friendly stranger who seemed to always precede a sudden breakout of the Blight.”

As she finishes her tale, a quiet settles over the camp. Varric’s face had grown paler in the telling, the dwarf uncharacteristically silent as he avoided her eye.

“Intriguing,” Solas says, “that is, of course, assuming it is true.”

“Would I lie to you, Solas?” She winks his way. “Could be he’s still wandering Ferelden, maybe we’ll even meet up again. Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the [Stories of Thedas Volume II](https://twitter.com/Nuka_Honey/status/1360152676617629699?s=19) prompt list on Twitter. The prompt was Campfire. I don't expect to do every day, but I'm hoping to get at least a handful done over the course of a month!


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